Twelve

ANNE MEREDITH

Mrs. Oliver extricated¹ herself from the driving seat of her little two-seater with some difficulty. Tobegin with, the makers² of modern motorcars assume that only a pair of sylphlike knees will everbe under the steering³ wheel. It is also the fashion to sit low. That being so, for a middle-agedwoman of generous proportions it requires a good deal of superhuman wriggling⁴ to get out fromunder the steering wheel. In the second place, the seat next to the driving seat was encumbered⁵ byseveral maps, a handbag, three novels and a large bag of apples. Mrs. Oliver was partial to applesand had indeed been known to eat as many as five pounds straight off whilst composing thecomplicated plot of The Death in the Drain Pipe—coming to herself with a start and an incipientstomachache an hour and ten minutes after she was due at an important luncheon⁶ party given inher honour.

With a final determined⁷ heave and a sharp shove with a knee against a recalcitrant⁸ door, Mrs.

Oliver arrived a little too suddenly on the sidewalk outside the gate of Wendon Cottage, showeringapple cores freely round her as she did so.

She gave a deep sigh, pushed back her country hat to an unfashionable angle, looked down withapproval at the tweeds she had remembered to put on, frowned a little when she saw that she hadabsentmindedly retained her London high-heeled patent leather shoes, and pushing open the gateof Wendon Cottage walked up the flagged path to the front door. She rang the bell and executed acheerful little rat-a-tat-tat on the knocker—a quaint⁹ conceit¹⁰ in the form of a toad’s head.

As nothing happened she repeated the performance.

After a further pause of a minute and a half, Mrs. Oliver stepped briskly round the side of thehouse on a voyage of exploration.

There was a small old- fashioned garden with Michaelmas daisies and stragglingchrysanthemums behind the cottage, and beyond it a field. Beyond the field was the river. For anOctober day the sun was warm.

Two girls were just crossing the field in the direction of the cottage. As they came through thegate into the garden, the foremost of the two stopped dead.

Mrs. Oliver came forward.

“How do you do, Miss Meredith? You remember me, don’t you?”

“Oh—oh, of course.” Anne Meredith extended her hand hurriedly. Her eyes looked wide andstartled. Then she pulled herself together.

“This is my friend who lives with me—Miss Dawes. Rhoda, this is Mrs. Oliver.”

The other girl was tall, dark, and vigorous-looking. She said excitedly:

“Oh, are you the Mrs. Oliver? Ariadne Oliver?”

“I am,” said Mrs. Oliver, and she added to Anne, “Now let us sit down somewhere, my dear,because I’ve got a lot to say to you.”

“Of course. And we’ll have tea—”

“Tea can wait,” said Mrs. Oliver.

Anne led the way to a little group of deck and basket chairs, all rather dilapidated. Mrs. Oliverchose the strongest-looking with some care, having had various unfortunate experiences withflimsy summer furniture.

“Now, my dear,” she said briskly. “Don’t let’s beat about the bush. About this murder the otherevening. We’ve got to get busy and do something.”

“Do something?” queried¹¹ Anne.

“Naturally,” said Mrs. Oliver. “I don’t know what you think, but I haven’t the least doubt whodid it. That doctor. What was his name? Roberts. That’s it! Roberts. A Welsh name! I never trustthe Welsh! I had a Welsh nurse and she took me to Harrogate one day and went home havingforgotten all about me. Very unstable¹². But never mind about her. Roberts did it—that’s the pointand we must put our heads together and prove he did.”

Rhoda Dawes laughed suddenly—then she blushed.

“I beg your pardon. But you’re—you’re so different from what I would have imagined.”

“A disappointment, I expect,” said Mrs. Oliver serenely¹³. “I’m used to that. Never mind. Whatwe must do is prove that Roberts did it!”

“How can we?” said Anne.

“Oh, don’t be so defeatist, Anne,” cried Rhoda Dawes. “I think Mrs. Oliver’s splendid. Ofcourse, she knows all about these things. She’ll do just as Sven Hjerson does.”

Blushing slightly at the name of her celebrated¹⁴ Finnish detective, Mrs. Oliver said:

“It’s got to be done, and I’ll tell you why, child. You don’t want people thinking you did it?”

“Why should they?” asked Anne, her colour rising.

“You know what people are!” said Mrs. Oliver. “The three who didn’t do it will come in for justas much suspicion as the one who did.”

Anne Meredith said slowly:

“I still don’t quite see why you come to me, Mrs. Oliver?”

“Because in my opinion the other two don’t matter! Mrs. Lorrimer is one of those women whoplay bridge at bridge clubs all day. Women like that must be made of armourplating—they canlook after themselves all right! And anyway she’s old. It wouldn’t matter if anyone thought she’ddone it. A girl’s different. She’s got her life in front of her.”

“And Major Despard?” asked Anne.

“Pah!” said Mrs. Oliver. “He’s a man! I never worry about men. Men can look after themselves.

Do it remarkably¹⁵ well, if you ask me. Besides, Major Despard enjoys a dangerous life. He’sgetting his fun at home instead of on the Irrawaddy—or do I mean the Limpopo? You know whatI mean—that yellow African river that men like so much. No, I’m not worrying my head abouteither of those two.”

“It’s very kind of you,” said Anne slowly.

“It was a beastly thing to happen,” said Rhoda. “It’s broken Anne up, Mrs. Oliver. She’sawfully sensitive. And I think you’re quite right. It would be ever so much better to do somethingthan just to sit here thinking about it all.”

“Of course it would,” said Mrs. Oliver. “To tell you the truth, a real murder has never come myway before. And, to continue telling the truth, I don’t believe real murder is very much in my line.

I’m so used to loading the dice—if you understand what I mean. But I wasn’t going to be out of itand let those three men have all the fun to themselves. I’ve always said that if a woman were thehead of Scotland Yard—”

“Yes?” said Rhoda, leaning forward with parted lips. “If you were head of Scotland Yard, whatwould you do?”

“I should arrest Dr. Roberts straight away—”

“Yes?”

“However, I’m not the head of Scotland Yard,” said Mrs. Oliver, retreating from dangerousground. “I’m a private individual—”

“Oh, you’re not that,” said Rhoda, confusedly complimentary¹⁶.

“Here we are,” continued Mrs. Oliver, “three private individuals—all women. Let us see whatwe can do by putting our heads together.”

Anne Meredith nodded thoughtfully. Then she said:

“Why do you think Dr. Roberts did it?”

“He’s that sort of man,” replied Mrs. Oliver promptly¹⁷.

“Don’t you think, though—” Anne hesitated. “Wouldn’t a doctor—? I mean something likepoison would be so much easier for him.”

“Not at all. Poison—drugs of any kind would point straight to a doctor. Look how they arealways leaving cases of dangerous drugs in cars all over London and getting them stolen. No, justbecause he was a doctor he’d take special care not to use anything of a medical kind.”

“I see,” said Anne doubtfully.

Then she said:

“But why do you think he wanted to kill Mr. Shaitana? Have you any idea?”

“Idea? I’ve got any amount of ideas. In fact, that’s just the difficulty. It always is my difficulty. Ican never think of even one plot at a time. I always think of at least five, and it’s agony to decidebetween them. I can think of six beautiful reasons for the murder. The trouble is I’ve no earthlymeans of knowing which is right. To begin with, perhaps Shaitana was a moneylender. He had avery oily look. Roberts was in his clutches, and killed him because he couldn’t get the money torepay the loan. Or perhaps Shaitana ruined his daughter or his sister. Or perhaps Roberts is abigamist, and Shaitana knew it. Or possibly Roberts married Shaitana’s second cousin, and willinherit all Shaitana’s money through her. Or—How many have I got to?”

“Four,” said Rhoda.

“Or—and this is a really good one—suppose Shaitana knew some secret in Roberts’ past.

Perhaps you didn’t notice, my dear, but Shaitana said something rather peculiar¹⁸ at dinner—justbefore a rather queer pause.”

Anne stooped to tickle¹⁹ a caterpillar²⁰. She said, “I don’t think I remember.”

“What did he say?” asked Rhoda.

“Something about—what was it?—an accident and poison. Don’t you remember?”

Anne’s left hand tightened²¹ on the basketwork of her chair.

“I do remember something of the kind,” she said composedly.

Rhoda said suddenly, “Darling, you ought to have a coat. It’s not summer, remember. Go andget one.”

Anne shook her head.

“I’m quite warm.”

But she gave a queer little shiver as she spoke²².

“You see my theory,” went on Mrs. Oliver. “I daresay one of the doctor’s patients poisonedhimself by accident; but, of course, really, it was the doctor’s own doing. I daresay he’s murderedlots of people that way.”

A sudden colour came into Anne’s cheeks. She said, “Do doctors usually want to murder theirpatients wholesale²³? Wouldn’t it have rather a regrettable effect on their practice?”

“There would be a reason, of course,” said Mrs. Oliver vaguely²⁴.

“I think the idea is absurd,” said Anne crisply. “Absolutely absurdly melodramatic.”

“Oh, Anne!” cried Rhoda in an agony of apology. She looked at Mrs. Oliver. Her eyes, ratherlike those of an intelligent spaniel, seemed to be trying to say something. “Try and understand. Tryand understand,” those eyes said.

“I think it’s a splendid idea, Mrs. Oliver,” Rhoda said earnestly. “And a doctor could get hold ofsomething quite untraceable, couldn’t he?”

“Oh!” exclaimed Anne.

The other two turned to look at her.

“I remember something else,” she said. “Mr. Shaitana said something about a doctor’sopportunities in a laboratory. He must have meant something by that.”

“It wasn’t Mr. Shaitana who said that.” Mrs. Oliver shook her head. “It was Major Despard.”

A footfall on the garden walk made her turn her head.

“Well!” she exclaimed. “Talk of the devil!”

Major Despard had just come round the corner of the house.

 

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